


play it sweet and low

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Comeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ridiculous Plot Contrivance, and yet still slightly melancholy because it's Them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:53:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3739720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where the Mark of Cain can be cured with angel come, and then Dean and Cas get a little carried away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	play it sweet and low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nightstiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightstiel/gifts).



> Yeah, so... okay, I don't know. This is a belated-ish gift for my excruciatingly lovely friend Julia's birthday, and we talked about the cure to the Mark being angel jizz a while ago, and then she was talking about wanting more bottom!Dean PWP, and, well. Things happen, okay?
> 
> The title is from "Build Me Up From Bones" by Sarah Jarosz. I'm on Tumblr [here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com).

“I—” Dean’s jaw clicks shut. He flexes his fingers. The Mark of Cain throbs familiarly under the bunched-up folds of his sleeve, maybe aggravated by the cool wetness of the beer Dean’s holding in his other hand.

Cas clears his throat. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his discomfort obvious. “Yeah,” he says before Dean can even start. “Yeah, I’m serious.”

“That’s—dude, that’s _gross_ ,” Dean says. Jesus, are his ears turning red? They feel hot, but the Mark’s been fucking with his sense of temperature for months now.

“I know,” Cas says soberly. “Sam didn’t want to tell you.”

Fuck, _Sam_. Dean groans. “If we. I mean, if this. He’ll never let me live it down.”

“Well.” Abruptly, Cas is all up in his space. His breath is warm against Dean’s mouth. “Can’t you take a little humiliation if it means getting to live?”

Dean’s heart claws its way into his throat. His dick hardens against the seam of his jeans. “Uh.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes dark.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says.

It kinda seems like something out of Dean’s weird anime porn phase, but then pretty much everything about his life seems like something out of shitty television.

“You’re really, really serious,” he’d said one more time, and Cas had shrugged.

“As long as there’s enough grace left in my system,” he said, “ingesting my semen should have a positive effect on the Mark’s influence over you. The fresher the better.”

Dean had wanted to gag a little at Cas’ phrasing, but manfully refrained. “Okay,” he’d said like this was all normal, gesturing down the hallway toward his bedroom, “let’s get this show on the road.”

Cas undresses step by step, like his body’s a mannequin and he’s a bored Macy’s employee. It’s not sexy; the fact that he’s gorgeous, long lines of muscle and dexterous fingers working at his buttons, is what saves the whole show.

“Aren’t you going to—?” He eyes Dean, who’s gaping at the unself-conscious nakedness of him. Dark-haired calves, solid thighs, sharp hipbones. Cas’ dick is soft between his legs and Dean’s palm itches to touch it, to cup the delicate heft of it and work Cas toward arousal.

“What, just… wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”

“Ah, well.” For a fleeting second, Dean thinks Cas might be embarrassed. “I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than this necessitates.”

 _Okay_ , Dean wants to say, _so treating this like a truck stop transaction is comfy for you. Fine._

He stays quiet as he steps closer, enough to hear the ragged edge to Cas’ breath, and sinks to his knees, the denim of his jeans scraping against the floor.

“Just hold still,” he mutters. Cas smells good, raw and human and freshly-showered, and his dick is smooth, almost sleek, as Dean’s cheek brushes it. His chest tight, Dean presses a tentative kiss to the inside of Cas’ thigh and savors the minute shudder he gets as reward.

“Dean,” Cas says.

Dean pushes aside his awareness of the Mark burning on his arm. “Mmm. Yep.” He looks up at Cas through his eyelashes, hopes it has the same effect on Cas as it has on regular humans. “You can touch me.” _Please touch me_.

Cas’ hand settles light and shaky at the back of Dean’s neck, and Dean’s stomach does one of those flips that means he’s too turned on to be terrified, and he sucks Cas’ half-erection right into his mouth. The sloppy, wet sound practically echoes against the walls of his room.

“Oh,” Cas breathes.

God, it’s good. The light salt taste of Cas’ skin, the heady feeling of him hardening right in Dean’s mouth, the way his hips twitch and shiver as Dean anchors him with both hands. Maybe this isn’t gonna be so humiliating after all.

Dean lets his throat work for a second. It makes Cas bite back a small, breathless noise.

“Just—” Dean draws back enough to speak, his lips against the head of Cas’ dick. He licks a drop of precome away. “Just lemme know if you’re not liking it.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says insistently. His fingers dig into the back of Dean’s neck.

That’s permission enough. Dean dives back in, his jaw slack and his heart pounding with hunger for this. For the whining sound that rises out of the back of Cas’ throat, the clutch of Cas’ hand sliding up to his hair and tugging. He used to be better at this, used to have tricks and techniques, but all Dean can keep in his head right now is the knowledge of Cas, half-human and vulnerable and giving this to him like he’s always giving too much for Dean and giving it too recklessly. Cas is trembling and Dean doesn’t feel powerful—he feels humbled.

“I’m,” Cas pants. “I’m liking it. Oh—do that again.”

Fighting back a grin, Dean does it again, scrapes his teeth just barely along the fever-hot vein pulsing at the underside of Cas’ erection. Cas _moans_. It’s guttural, a low creak of sound that curls tight in the pit of Dean’s belly.

Dean’s giddy, sucking gently at the slit and drinking in the tiny flutters of Cas’ fingers against his scalp, and then Cas’ hand slides to cup his cheek, his jaw, to feel the stretch of his own dick against Dean’s cheek and lips and when he opens his lips, two of Cas’ fingertips pop in alongside his erection. And Dean’s the one who moans, who has to drop a hand to drag his knuckles against where his own dick is threatening to bust out of his jeans, who swallows Cas’ fingers down like he’s starved for them.

Cas’ fingers press hard just under his jaw, and for a second Dean just thinks _whoa, yeah, kinky bastard_ , and then he tunes in and figures out that Cas is saying something, slurred but insistent.

“I’m—Dean, I’m close, I—”

Hey, idiot of the year award goes to Dean Winchester, but something in his breastbone goes hollow and scared and he stumbles to his feet. His mouth feels swollen, his throat raw; he slings an arm around Cas’ shoulders, curls three fingers of the other hand around Cas’ balls, and kisses him hard. Open-mouthed, shaking, needy.

Cas sobs into his mouth, sucks on Dean’s tongue, and comes all over both their stomachs and the inside of Dean’s wrist.

“Shit,” he says distantly. “I should have waited.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He bites at Cas’ lower lip, kisses the corner of his mouth, and slides his hand up over Cas’ stomach. There’s enough come left to lick his own hand clean when he’s done, to feel the rapidity of his own pulse as he swallows it.

Things are gonna get awkward the second Dean opens his eyes, so he doesn’t. He tucks his face against the bare, sweaty side of Cas’ neck and breathes. His dick and the Mark throb in time with each other, urgency chasing desperation in dizzying circles around his bloodstream.

“That, ah, may not have been…”

“Enough?” Dean finishes. He’s embarrassingly eager, shifting and angling his hips so his crotch is pressed to the corded muscle of Cas’ thigh. “Yeah, feels the same.” He lifts his arm up in demonstration.

Cas’ eyes flash. “Then we’re not done.”

“Nope,” Dean says, and he sucks a faint bruise into the spot behind Cas’ ear. It’s all gotta help, he tells himself—angel skin, angel sweat, tucking the stuttering of an angel’s breath away in his memory.

In a flash, Cas is all hands: stroking the curve of Dean’s spine, rucking the backs of his shirts up, fingers tugging at his jeans’ belt loops. When Castiel wants to do something, he fucking _does_ it, and Dean succumbs like he’s been waiting for this all his life. Hell, maybe he has.

Once he’s wrestled Dean out of his shirts and his jeans, Cas goes still. He licks his lips, his brow furrowed, and stares right at Dean’s erection.

“Uh.” Dean trains his gaze on the ceiling. The embarrassment’s not making it go down—instead, a fresh thrill of arousal makes his dick jump noticeably in his boxer-briefs.

“Is this…?” Cas touches the pads of his fingertips to Dean’s thigh. Dean aches to turn. To make him touch.

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans. “Dude, yeah, please. Don’t tease me.”

Cas’ eyes widen. “Oh,” he says, “okay,” and he yanks Dean’s underwear down and off in one fluid motion.

The illusion that this is for some bullshit magical cure is vanishing. Dean doesn’t care, can barely even think the second Cas is pressed naked and enthusiastic all along the length of him. He grips Cas’ shoulders, elbows, the perfect swell of his ass, struggling just to keep himself tethered to the earth as Cas pins him to the bed and keeps _touching_. Fingers pinching his nipples to aching stiffness, mouth humid and inquisitive against the hollow of his throat. The weight of Cas’ whole body stretched out over him.

“Cas, Cas, fuck.” Dean’s hips buck up as Cas’ knee slots between his thighs and his aching dick gets a hint of friction. He whimpers.

“Dean,” Cas rumbles back at him, and he slides his thumb along Dean’s mouth, pushes it between his lips. “Taste me.”

Dean does, rolling his hips in helpless rhythm against Cas’ leg. It’s human, salt and sweat and come, but there’s something in the aftertaste, a taste like the smell after it rains, that lingers at the back of his throat. The Mark twitches angrily, but it’s muted.

Cas’ movements are getting easier, like he’s figuring out that Dean is embarrassingly fucking easy for him, that he could just breathe into Dean’s mouth and Dean would be spreading himself open for the mercy of Cas’ touch. He slides his fist down over Dean’s dick, long fingers squeezed tight so Dean can groan and fuck up into Cas’ grip. There are unruly tufts of hair curling at Cas’ temples and forehead, framing the intent seriousness of his expression, and he jacks Dean slow, slow and easy, making Dean chase his hand.

It’s so good, simple physical pleasure and the heaviness of Cas’ attention on him. Dean’s coming untethered, his nerve endings unraveling, and he’s uncoordinated, fumbling like a child as he reaches to grab Cas’ wrist and stop him.

“Dean?” Cas squints at him. The expression’s so normal, such a Castiel _thing_ , that Dean bites back a laugh.

“Don’t, uh.” Dean drags in a long breath. His lungs burn. “Don’t want it to be over so fast.” He’s got this image of Cas coaxing his orgasm out and then everything going back to business as usual—himself kneeling naked on the floor and making it all the way through blowing Cas this time, shaking hands like they had a successful passionless transaction. Not if this is gonna be it. Not if this doesn’t even work and he goes out in a blaze of bloody glory and, like in his worst nightmares, he takes Cas and Sam with him.

Thoughtful, Cas rolls Dean’s balls in his fingers. Almost absently, like a nervous habit, but one that makes Dean gasp and squirm.

“Okay,” Cas says. “Okay. I don’t either. What do you want?”

The question’s so matter-of-fact, so direct, that Dean doesn’t remember to lie. He walks Cas through opening the bottom drawer, through moving aside the piles of old journals until he finds the shameful year-old bottle of lube.

“So, you just, uh.” Dean shifts restlessly, chews on his lip. Cas smiles at him, a crooked and knowing kind of smile, and rubs two cold, slick fingertips against the space behind his balls. “ _Jesus_ ,” Dean hisses. He’s arching up, letting his legs fall open. “Jesus Christ, yeah, that.”

Cas doesn’t pull his damn punches. “Like this?” he asks lightly, making long, gentle strokes all down the cleft of Dean’s ass, glancing over his hole. “Or—?” He slows, presses his fingertips right _there_ at the shuddering muscle. Gentle and firm and, because this is Castiel, inexorable.

“Don’t be an asshole,” Dean grits out.

“I’m not trying to,” Cas says. His lips twitch upwards. “But wouldn’t now be an appropriate time? Thematically?”

“Fuck— _off_.” Halfway through that, Cas works a fingertip into Dean and Dean moans, his voice rising and wavering. “No, shit, don’t stop.”

Cas is still smiling; he kisses the side of Dean’s knee, petting just inside him all deft and careful as Dean’s dick leaks against his belly. “I intend to finish what I started.”

Right, right, yeah. The Mark’s gone quiet, which is weird—usually it gets onboard with bells on when Dean’s turned on. Maybe it really is Cas’ presence, the soothing stretch of his middle finger pushing its way further in and his lips moving in some inaudible chant against the skin of Dean’s kneecap. It could be some crazy Enochian, some part of the ridiculous sex magic thing, but Dean kinda hopes it’s just normal sex stuff. He knows what he’d be saying—what he hopes he gets to say one day. _Come on, I got you. You’re good, so good. Yeah, babe. Cas. You’re gorgeous._

“Hey,” he says. His voice rasps. “Hey—” Dean’s about to ask for a kiss and then Cas grazes the edge of his prostate and he’s lost to the white-hot pleasure instead, his whole system flickering out of and then back into coherence.

Cas is watching him when he opens his eyes again, and Dean musters up a shaky grin. “Hey, you hit the sweet spot,” he finishes instead.

Seems like that pushes Cas into gear: he works two fingers into Dean, attentive as Dean holds his breath through the receding pain and then ruthless as Dean writhes under Cas’ fascinated one-person exploration of the prostate. He strokes, rubs, caresses, bites down at Dean’s collarbone and holds him in place as Dean sobs dryly when Cas sucks hard at his nipple and curls fingers deliberately inside him at the same damn time.

“I can’t—Cas, fuck, I can’t—”

“You can,” Cas says. He’s fucking merciless, stretching Dean’s rim as he draws his fingers out, pushing them back in hard, and when he leans down and breathes hotly against Dean’s erection, Dean’s lost. He’s gone. He gives in to the feverish burn of pleasure coiling in all his limbs and lets the orgasm pull its way out from the base of his spine, his dick jerking and spilling over his stomach and Cas’ mouth.

“See.” Cas kisses his hip, then the soft swell of his belly. Come smears messily over his skin; Cas licks his lips. “I told you you could.”

Dean hums some nonsensical agreement. “You’re not the one who’s s’posed to eat _my_ jizz,” he points out, fighting the urge to laugh.

“Well.” Cas’ expression flickers into sheepishness. “I like it. That’s all.”

Cas’ fingers are still snug inside Dean, and Dean stretches in place, luxurious, liking them there. He reaches down to grip Cas’ elbow, holding him in place. “You wanna fuck me?”

The next flicker that crosses Cas’ expression is darker, more secretive. “That’s not really… productive, is it?” But his fingers press deeper in, giving him away. His thumb rubs at Dean’s perineum and he slips in a third finger as if Dean’s not gonna notice a thing like that.

Dean laughs. It comes out hoarse, shaky as Cas’ fingers catch a good spot. “Was _that_?” The Mark is quiet, so something is working, and Cas is obviously up for another round, his dick beautifully hard. Dean wants it, an honest kind of want he hasn’t felt for a long time.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says as he pulls his fingers out one by one. Dean can’t figure out his tone—mournful, fond, skeptical? It doesn’t matter for long, not as Cas hauls Dean’s legs up and around his waist. Like it’s easy; his effortless strength almost gets Dean’s dick onboard all over again.

Cas pauses, and Dean gets up the wherewithal to grab a handful of Cas’ hair and knock their foreheads together. To kiss the bridge of his nose and then to reach down between them and guide the head of Cas’ dick right up against where his hole is stretched and wanting.

“Oh, _Dean_ ,” and this time it’s just pained desire and Cas is inside him, filling up all his empty spaces until his hips are right against Dean’s ass and Dean’s eyelids flutter, his pulse ringing in his ears.

“Feels good,” he manages.

“So good,” Cas says, his voice a low, low ache in Dean’s bloodstream. “I’ve wanted—Dean—”

“Fuck me,” Dean cuts him off, rolling his hips and squeezing tight around Cas’ dick. “Just fuck me, okay?” He can’t take a heartfelt confession right now. Not until—unless—he’s cured, and Cas is okay, and they’re on their next universe-ending crisis.

Right now all he can take is the glide and drag of Cas’ dick inside him. The catch at his rim when Cas pulls out. Cas’ teeth scraping the tendons of his neck, the lines of his collarbones. It’s slow and tentative and then Cas seems to get it all at once; he shifts his weight, tightens his grip at Dean’s hips, and he’s fucking _off_ , fucking Dean hard and fast and panting right in Dean’s ear.

Dean can’t do anything. Can’t move, can’t come again—he’s not that young—can’t say the things he wants or needs to say. He hangs on for the ride; tilts his head for Cas’ frantic kisses to his neck and jaw, rocks his hips to help Cas’ rhythm when he can, and tries like hell to memorize the exact feeling of Cas’ dick moving in him. The human warmth of it, the iron strength of Cas’ arms holding him up in contrast to the few times Cas nearly misses sliding back home and has to readjust and the way that stretches Dean’s hole all over again. The muffled sounds of Cas burying his gorgeously ordinary sex noises in the slope between Dean’s shoulder and neck.

“C’mere,” Dean says. Because he can tell Cas is close, because Cas’ lips are red and bitten, because he can. He tips Cas’ head up and presses their open mouths together, licks the back of Cas’ teeth, and kisses him through the shudder and the moan as Cas comes. He feels it, the pulse of Cas wet and scorching inside him, Cas’ muscles trembling. Cas hanging onto him so hard it might bruise. Dean hopes it does.

“Gonna feel that tomorrow.” Dean pushes his fingers through the mess of Cas’ hair.

“Well—” Cas licks his lips again. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are glittering. “Well, maybe that’ll remind us to try again.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, ’cause of—yeah.”

Cas gives him a smile, easing his way out of Dean without breaking eye contact. “I’m not averse to a few practice rounds,” he says, frustratingly casual.

“Dude.” Dean clenches his jaw against an idiotic smile. “No. I mean—yeah. Me neither.”

They stay like that for longer than Dean’ll want to recall later. Staring at each other, hopeful and flustered. The Mark doesn’t trouble Dean for the rest of the night.


End file.
